Three Women that Flynn Rider Courted (And One That Eugene Did)
by bananajelly
Summary: Before he was Eugene Fitzherbert, reformed consort to the princess, he was Flynn Rider, rogue, criminal, and womanizer. This is the story of three women that came into Flynn's life during his days of thievery - plus the one who stole his heart for good.
1. Daisy

**a/n: based off the movie, with references to the show, which i've recently started watching and is way better than it has any right to be.**

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Flynn is three mugs of ale deep when the girl sidles up to him and plunks herself down in the nearest stool. He doesn't bother to hide his quick appraisal of her. She's pretty, with full-figured curves and eyes as blue as the sapphires he once pocketed off some poor jeweler. "You're Flynn Rider," she says in an awed voice. "Aren't you?"

He puffs out his chest and gives her the best smolder he can muster, given that the walls of the tavern are starting to look a little topsy-turvy. "You've caught me red-handed."

The girl wraps a strand of curly brown hair around her finger. "Actually, I think _you've _caught _me_," she teases. Her lips are very red. "I'm Daisy."

"Daisy," he repeats. "Well, now that I've got you, what am I going to do with you?"

The rest of the night is a blur, sloppy and tinged with alcohol, and it culminates with him waking in a strange bedroom.

He blinks and looks down at the warm body sprawled atop his. It takes him a moment to remember the name of the girl with the vacant smile etched across her face. Flynn nudges her off him and sits up, rubbing at a crick in his neck. The soreness can't tamp down his good mood; as he slips into last night's clothes, he revels in the afterglow of putting another notch in his belt.

He's halfway out the door when he spots _the poster _pinned up on her wall.

Well. Someone's got himself a fangirl.

The paper is yellowed and crinkled at the edges, but otherwise in good condition. His nose is drawn _slightly _better than most renditions (though it still doesn't hold a candle to the real thing, in Flynn's not-so-humble-opinion). She's doodled hearts around his face in a loopy, girlish scrawl. A little sentimental, but oh well.

The smirk on his face stretches a mile wide. Okay, maybe it's a tad creepy, but he really just feels flattered. Flynn's well aware of the reputation he's cultivated with the ladies of the kingdom, and he preens himself on the achievement.

Behind him, Daisy finally stirs. "Flynn? You're up?"

"Rise and shine."

"Can I cook you breakfast?"

Flynn pauses. He can leave now, let her become another in a long list of strangers. But he likes the star-struck way that Daisy looks at him; after all, she _is _in the presence of the kingdom's most dashing thief. It can't hurt to stay for a bit of grub.

As she cracks eggs and whips them in a wooden bowl, she pleads for Flynn to spill the stories of the swashbuckling she's heard so much about. "You're a _legend _around here," Daisy gushes, much to his gratification. "The girls won't believe it when I tell them I was swept off my feet by _Flynn Rider_! Come on, tell me everything—is it true you once broke out of prison with nothing but a stolen brooch?"

So he does. It's nice to have a captive audience. Flynn's always had a knack for storytelling. He relays her greatest hits: stealing a priceless painting by swapping it out for a cheap copy, narrowly avoiding getting caught by the collective armed forces of the city of Vardaros, and of course, the time he schmoozed his way into some aristocrat's wedding and made off with the ring (of course, not without winning over the blushing bride first). Daisy _ooh's _and _aah's _at the appropriate moments, and claps her hands together at the conclusions. It's self-indulgent, even for him. His ego thoroughly massaged, Flynn finds himself feeling a tad more open than usual.

"There was one winter," he says, "when the Corona orphanage was facing food shortages. Me and my buddy Lance, we made off with four whole crates of fruit from the farmer's market and left it in their courtyard." Almost as soon as it's out of his mouth, Flynn wants to take his words back. Has he said too much? Given away any piece of his past—Eugene's past?

He doesn't look up in time to catch Daisy's frown. "That's, um, really cool, I guess."

"Yeah." He pushes his worries out of his thoughts, allowing the memory of the good deed to warm his chest like a shot of hard liquor. He doesn't have many like it. "The kids there were smart about it. We couldn't have just dropped it off at their doorstep; matrons would have traced it back to the merchant and seized it." Without thinking, he says, "God, those matrons were one hell of a pain in my side."

Daisy blinks at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know what the matrons were-"

Realizing his mistake, he abruptly cuts her off. "So we told the kids to distribute it among themselves and dispose of the crates as soon as they could."

"Uh-huh." Daisy chews at her bottom lip. "Did you get anything else out of it?"

He knits his eyebrows. "Well… no. We were just trying to help them out." He's only ever done something like that once, and even now he can't quite explain his rationale. For all the pomp and swagger, Flynn knows that ultimately, most people see him as lawless scum. There's a life that's reserved for the do-gooders and heroes of the world, one that's clean and tidy and bright, and it's one he'll never be a part of. And he's okay with that. So he doesn't know _why _he felt the urge to feed the orphanage—he wasn't trying to seek out virtue or prove he was more than criminal riffraff. But he did do it, and he doesn't regret it.

Daisy picks at a fingernail, oblivious to his thoughts. "Okay."

After they polish off the meal, Flynn takes Daisy around to a few of his usual haunts. It's not until the initial shine of her compliments has worn off that Flynn realizes it's actually not very fun to talk to Daisy at all, and he reminds himself why he's always kept his flings short and meaningless. Trying to have a conversation with Daisy is a bit like conversing with an actual daisy.

Still—he's never attempted a real relationship. He could be missing out. _Try anything once_, he tells himself.

Over the course of the week, it becomes crystal clear to him that Daisy is exclusively interested in Flynn Rider. Or, more specifically, the carefully constructed version of Flynn Rider that he's spent the better part of his life honing, and all the glamor and excitement that comes along with it.

And it shouldn't be a problem. Because _he is _Flynnigan Rider, suave and smooth, the guy who knows his way out of every situation and has the power to make any girl swoon_. _Eugene is just a faded memory that he wants to erase from his mind.

_If that's true, then why do you have to watch who you are around her?_

_Shut up, inner voice._

They date for two weeks. The sex is good, and it's nice to wake up next to the same body nestled beside him day after day, yet anytime they're _not _in bed, he just feels exhausted. Exhaustion is a foreign sensation and he doesn't like it one bit. For once, he actually tires of telling his stories. They're not all tales of excitement and victory—there were times when his plans fell through and everything went down in flames, but he doubts Daisy wants to hear those, or that he would enjoy recounting them for her.

Daisy never wants to stay in or even go anywhere remotely private. Whenever he doesn't feel like taking her into town, she pouts until he gives in. If he's honest with himself, he's not sure whether he feels annoyed or relieved—he doesn't _really _want to spend one-on-one time with Daisy. It's just one of those things that couples do, he supposes. The whole thing makes him feel downright ridiculous and only confirms his belief that he wasn't built for a relationship.

Soon enough, Flynn's on the verge of ripping his hair out, and _that _would be a human goddamn tragedy. He can no longer remember why he attempted any of this. Ever since the orphanage, it hasn't felt natural to stay in the same place for too long, or to have someone clinging by his side like a barnacle.

It's a warm spring morning when he finally makes up his mind. With Daisy sound asleep in bed, her chest rising and falling with every light snore, Flynn does what he should have done two weeks ago. He slips his few belongings into his satchel, jumps out the window, lands noiselessly on his feet, and goes on his way. Flynn doesn't do goodbyes.


	2. Nicola

It all starts with another job—a little riskier than Flynn is used to, but the prospect of danger only fuels his motivation. The target is Lord Taron Bennett, a corpulent Corona nobleman with too much money on his hands and too little reason to hold on to it. Flynn doesn't have much of moral compass to begin with, but any lingering trace of guilt goes out the window when it comes to stealing from guys like Bennett: overgrown brats who look down their noses at anyone who wasn't lucky enough to be born into obscene wealth.

Half the time, Bennett is away on vacation doing god-knows-what, and Flynn doesn't have to wait long for the stars to align. Once the man is off on his holiday, probably gorging himself silly in some velvet-upholstered caravan, Flynn gets to reconnoitering Bennett's manor and pinpointing where his riches are tucked away. It's almost too easy. He scales a tree and eases onto the ledge that wraps around the third floor, picks the lock on the window, and crouches down low to peer inside. The room he finds himself in is dim, lit only by the reflection of moonlight off the jewels behind glass display cases. _Eureka._

He's in the middle of retrieving a diamond necklace from a broken case when a woman materializes from around a corner. "I suppose you're robbing us," she says, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He whirls around, bristling. _Nobody _gets the jump on Flynn Rider.

The woman standing before him is tall, with a narrow face that tapers into a sharp chin, two black eyes that glint dangerously under the lights, and a wine-red mouth. Her dark hair is twisted into an intricate updo. She looks to be about ten years older than him—early thirties, perhaps. Rubies hang around her neck like ripe fruit on a vine. He stares at her for a moment too long before regaining his senses.

"Now, now," he says, "I was under the impression I was robbing _him_, singular. Wasn't aware of the beautiful woman living in his house." If he can charm her, he can get out of this with minimal damage.

She quirks one arched eyebrow. "That woman," she says bitterly, "is his _wife_." She spits out the last word as if it has a rotten taste. "Call me Nicola."

Flynn waits for her calm façade to break, for her to call for help—but it never comes. She stalks towards him with feline grace, her gaze burning, and stops an inch away from his lips. He smells perfume and spice. For the first time in a long time, he can't find the right words.

"Well, go on. Carry on with your thievery. I couldn't care less. It's all belongs to _him_anyways," Nicola hisses.

Flynn just blinks at her. "I didn't know he had a wife."

"There's a lot you don't know, young man, isn't there?" She looks at him like she wants to devour him.

Part of him wants to sputter in indignation, but the other part wants to close the inch of distance between them.

All he knows is to act on instinct, so he does.

All at once, a fistful of diamonds clatters to the ground, and those wine-red lips are pressing against his own. Nicola tastes like every expensive thing he was never allowed to touch.

The rational part of his mind melts away as his body takes over. She's experienced, and it shows in the way she writhes against him. Still, even in the delicious haze, he feels bewildered. "Hold on", he tells her between panting breaths. "What are we doing? Who _are_ you?"

_"Shut up", _she says, and sinks her teeth into his lower lip.

The morning after, he's fiddling with the latch on the window when Nicola slides up behind him and loops an arm around his toned stomach. "Where do you think you're going?" she purrs. "Stay." It's hardly a question.

Under most circumstances, Flynn doesn't like taking orders, but he thinks he can live with it this one time.

As he lies in the softest bed he's ever felt, she tells him about her life, from the finishing school she attended as a young girl to her recent move to Corona. Nicola has the rare talent of talking in a manner that actually makes him want to listen. He learns that she's twelve years older than him, that she hates going by _Lady Bennett_, and more than anything, she hates her husband.

"It's all so tired. Arranged union, obviously," she says with an exaggerated roll of eyes. "It was supposed to put a rest to the feud between our families. Everyone wants to be born into old money, but you've no idea all the baggage it entails. I suppose that it comes at the cost of a loveless marriage. You know, I was a romantic before all this."

Flynn can't remember ever being a romantic. An idealist, maybe, but even in his childhood, he never envisioned himself marrying or starting a family. Flynn is twenty-one, and he has no business even _looking _in the direction of a nobleman's wife like Lady Bennett, let alone having a sordid affair with her.

Yet here he is.

The morning bleeds into afternoon and Nicola finally grows tired of lounging in the bed. "Come on, I'll take you on a tour of the gardens. Taron lets me grow whatever I want. It's what keeps me sane, really."

The garden is admittedly stunning, verdant and wild, overgrown in a way that looks intentional. He lets her lead him up the path and listens to her describe the different plants. Most of them are imported from exotic islands and rainforests, the kind of places he can only dream of seeing. She's seen so much of the world—Flynn travels a lot, but it's mostly limited to where he can go on foot or by stolen horse and wagon. Nicola, on the other hand, has sailed ships to all seven seas, journeyed to the farthest reaches of the known world, exchanged gifts with foreign monarchs and dignitaries. It's Flynn's turn to be a little starstruck, even if he tries to hide it.

He spends the next few days living at the manor, not asking when Lord Bennett will return, and not wanting to know the answer. It's the most surreal thing he's ever experienced. He wakes up every day to the promise of a hot meal, and goes to bed without worrying about being nabbed by guards in the dead of night.

During the night (and sometimes the afternoon and morning and evening), he and Nicola occupy themselves with each other's bodies. She's absolutely voracious, and Flynn returns her hunger with his own. He wonders how starved for passion she must have been when Bennett was around. Though most of the servants are away, there's a skeleton crew left over in the manor, all of whom speak very little and are eager to look the other way when they lock themselves in the bedroom. If Nicola is worried they'll speak a word of this to her husband, she certainly doesn't show it.

He's not stupid enough to believe their relationship will go anywhere, but that doesn't stop him from thoroughly enjoying their time together. It's not just that Nicola's a tiger in the sack, either; there's something about her that he truly likes. She's a far cry from the young women he's used to stringing along. Nicola is worldly and mature, if disillusioned. She seems to have seen everything, to want for nothing. It's oddly appealing.

One night, she pours them two glasses of wine and settles in front of the fireplace. This is almost the life he's dreamed of for himself, carefree and indulgent, though he doesn't actually have a claim on anything around him. It has to end sooner or later. He shoves that bothersome thought aside.

She rests her head on his lap and blinks up at him. "Tell me about yourself, Flynn. I feel like such a bore going on and on about _moi._"

He yawns. "Sorry, babe, I don't do backstory. What else do you want to hear?"

"What do _you_ want_?_"

He runs a hand through his hair, contemplative. "Right now? If I'm being honest, nothing."

She snorts. "Everybody wants something."

"No, really." It's the truth. He doesn't even need the wine—just sitting next to her is somehow mollifying, sapping away all the urgency that lurks just under the surface of his skin until he feels gloriously, painlessly numb. "It's like… my whole life, I've had this _itch_. No matter what I do, how much I steal, how much glory I get—and believe me, it's a lot of glory—it's not satisfied. But here… it's gone quiet."

At this, Nicola goes silent.

The next day, they end up in the garden again, and he kisses her under the same tree he used to climb onto the window. When they circle back to the archway entrance, she puts a hand to his chest and looks up at him with an unreadable expression.

"My husband is returning tomorrow."

His face drops. "Oh."

"You have to go."

Her words burrow into his chest and settle there, cold, scampering things that scratch against his ribcage. "Nicola—"

"Come on, now. Don't make this hard. You were a distraction, Flynn. An irresistible one, to be fair," she smirks, "but still a distraction. You don't mean anything to me. You have to know that. And you used me too."

She's right, and he should say _I know_, _I'll be on my way now, _but instead he blurts out, "You know that's not true."

Her smirk falters and then dies. "Oh, Flynn—"

"I think I—" he pauses. It comes to him like a flash of gold. He doesn't love her. Maybe he's not even capable of love. But he does _like_ her, and he can't remember the last time he really liked anyone. "I'm happy with you, Nicola. And I know you're happy with me too. Isn't that good enough? We could… make something of this. I don't know. Keep seeing each other."

For a long, terrible moment, Nicola looks like she's about to cry, all sense of composure gone from her coal-black eyes. She brings her hand to his face, and her touch is cool even as the sun beats down on the two of them. "Flynn, you're not happy here. You're pacified, numbed. Complacency isn't happiness. You can trick yourself into thinking it is. Sometimes you'll even believe it. But take it from me, Rider," she says, and her smile is soft and sad, "it doesn't last, and you know the worst part? You can't even remember what it feelslike to really _want. _I mean, to want something with all of your heart."

Then there really is a tear rolling down her cheek, and even though it's not for him, Flynn goes to wipe it away. She grabs his wrist to stop him. "Don't make this harder, young man." In spite of himself, he smiles at the endearment. "Just go."

(later, he'll replay the memory in his head, thinking that perhaps _good enough_ is all he can hope for, and he'll say_ come on, I'm not going anywhere_—)

Out of nowhere, he feels that itch spring back to life, gnawing away at the back of his skull. He doesn't know what he's looking for. Maybe he'll never find out.

But Flynn's not ready to give it up. Not yet.

Without further protest, he goes.


	3. Stalyan

**a/n: if you guessed stalyan, you were right! she stole my heart in the series. but nobody can compete with our girl who's coming up in the final chapter ;)**

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It happens in the heat of the moment, with a fleet of guards chasing him and Stalyan through the streets of Pincosta. This wasn't how the plan was supposed to go, damn it, but now is hardly the time to review the specifics of when and where they messed up. No, the only thing he has on his mind as his feet pound against the cobblestones is _escape_. Pincosta's guards are more capable than Corona's, and they're gaining on them fast.

Stalyan's strides are shorter than his, but she manages to keep pace beside him as they tear down the path, heading for the woodland that borders the city. The wilderness rises up around them in a green blur. "What now, genius?" she manages to grit out between puffs of breath.

Flynn looks around, taking in the dense forest that surrounds them. "Nowhere to go but up," he says, bolting for the nearest tree and climbing so hastily that the bark digs long white lines into his exposed forearms. They've got maybe fifteen seconds before the guards catch up. Once he's steadied himself, he peers down at Stalyan, who's struggling to reach even the lowest boughs of the tree. Flynn curses under his breath and reaches down to take her hand, planting his feet firmly against the branch he's standing on. She finds a foothold in the wood and scrambles up with the help of a firm yank of his arm.

Just as he flattens himself against the tree trunk, hoping against hope that they're concealed by the leaf canopy, five angered sentries charge into the area below them.

"Where'd they go?"

"They must be headed for the harbor—keep moving!"

Flynn waits until their footsteps have receded into the distance before allowing himself a deep sigh of relief. Next to him, Stalyan perches delicately on a higher branch, looking poised even with twigs stuck haphazardly throughout her auburn hair. She doesn't seem to share the same enthusiasm as he does for not getting caught. "Fantastic," she says bitterly. "All that waiting and watching and planning for nothing. We're empty-handed."

"Don't be so sure about that," he smirks, and swings to the ground before she has time to react, landing on his feet in the dirt. Stalyan slips down after him.

He doesn't miss a beat, procuring the hefty diamond from his pocket and holding it at just the right angle so it hits the light. Up close, it's all too easy to see how the Eye of Pincosta came to be the famed treasure of the city—it's dazzling.

Stalyan's eyes widen as she takes in the diamond. "Why, you little—" She doesn't finish her sentence, opting instead to grab his collar and kiss him, hard. He stumbles back a step before regaining balance and crowding her against the tree, channeling all his adrenaline into the kiss. She moans into his mouth, and the sound of it heats his blood.

When they pull apart for air, her hair is mussed and her lipstick is smudged. She looks wild, untamed. God, he just wants to push her against the tree again and—

"I love you," she says, and this time Flynn really does almost fall over.

Stalyan gauges the surprise on his face right away and raises a hand to cover his mouth, smiling. Always confident, always in control. "_Shh_. You don't need to say it back, Rider. Not when I already know how you feel." She splays her fingers over his heart. It quickens under her touch, but he's not sure if it's from her proximity or his panic.

Afterwards, Flynn spends an embarrassing amount of time turning those words over and over in his mind, muddling his thoughts even further. He think's Stalyan's the one. She's gorgeous, wickedly smart, and one hell of a thief—it occurs to Flynn that she's practically the female version of _him_. He's never been more efficient than when he's working by her side. They make a perfect team: while one of them acts as the distraction, wielding their easy charisma and good looks to their benefit, the other slinks away to wherever they need to be and weighs down their knapsack with gold. He'd be an idiot to let her go.

Of course, there's her hulking beast of a father to worry about, but when has he ever let a pissed-off dad get in his way before?

They're a perfect match. There may be no honor among thieves, but what they have is far more than a business partnership. Flynn can depend on her, secure in the knowledge that she won't betray him or turn her back when he needs her. He's unsettled to realize that he would do the same for her, when in the past he had no problem selling out his partners for a handful of gold.

So for all intents and purposes, he should have no problem saying it back.

But Flynn doesn't even _know_ if he loves her_. _Hell, he has nothing to compare his feelings against, no former point of reference. He's never been in love; the closest he ever came before was with Nicola, and even then he knew it was a far cry from the real thing. Besides, when did any of this start to matter to him? Flynn hasn't had an issue with lying before. If all it takes to keep this partnership going is to say those three little words…

No. That idea bothers him more than it should, but he doesn't probe deeper to find out why. Not a big fan of emotional introspection, thank you very much.

To her credit, Stalyan is true to her word and doesn't push him for any kind of response the next few days. They pawn off the Eye, but their reward is barely a fraction of the gemstone's true worth. As he's known from a young age, getting ripped off is an inevitable downside of selling stolen goods. He'd sooner find the lost princess than wrangle a fair price out of the crooks that he deals with in the black market.

Still, their haul is a good deal better than usual, and it leaves the two of them in high spirits. They find a small clearing in the forest to relax in. Stalyan's boots are growing worn, and they'll need to grab new ones soon. She picks at the laces, frowning at the wear and tear, and it reminds Flynn that in spite of all her bravado, Stalyan didn't grow up with this lifestyle. She was born into wealth, her life dictated by a power-hungry dad who had expected her to carry on the family legacy rather than running off with, well, _him_. He won't say it to her face, but sometimes it puzzles him how she was able to give up her dad's trust in exchange for life on the run with a rogue (however handsome that rogue may be). If _he'd_ gotten the luxury of actually meeting his parents, he wouldn't have been so careless.

Flynn frowns at the Eugene-ness of that thought.

But Stalyan is currently resting her head in his lap, sprawled out on the soft grass with her hair draped over his legs, and Flynn _really _does not want to think about her dad anymore. She peers up at him through dark lashes. Her eyes are a cool, muted blue. "Let's get married," she says.

Flynn's pretty sure he heard her wrong. He laughs, making Stalyan prop herself up on her elbows and glare at him. "I'm serious, Rider. Let's do it. Get hitched. Ride off into the sunset and all."

He gapes at her. "You mean it?"

Stalyan's smile is a wicked slash of white. "Oh, I do."

Flynn can only stare at Stalyan, her face backlit by the sunlight streaming through the trees, and pray that he doesn't look too much like an idiot. _Marriage. _He never once thought he would get married. Marriage is something reserved for the wholesome, law-abiding citizens of the kingdom, not for criminals like him and Stalyan who leave a wake of scorn and ruin wherever they go. And even if he puts all those preconceptions aside, it's _Stalyan. _He can think of her as a partner in crime, a lover, but a _wife?_

As usual, Stalyan reads him faster than he can sort out his own tumultuous thoughts. She slithers up beside him and runs a hand through his hair. "Why not? Think about it," she says. "You're never gonna have it better than this, baby. You and I, we're made for each other."

He narrows his eyes. "This because of your dad?"

She scoffs and pulls an inch away. "What do you think of me? Of course not. Now, it certainly doesn't _hurt _that this'll legitimize our relationship in his eyes… but I'm not just being daddy's little girl. Consider his approval a… bonus." She moves in close again and presses kisses along his jaw, making his senses go fuzzy at the edges.

He digs his nails into his palms to try and win back some focus. "I don't know, Stalyan. People like us… we're not meant to live like everyone else. And it's a big commitment." He swallows. "Both of us are already in dire enough straits with the kingdom as it is. Can you imagine the size of the bounty on our heads if we were a…"—Flynn winces internally as he searches for the right word—"a unit?" Under normal circumstances, he would boast about his wanted status, but right now, all he can do is scrape out the words and hope they sound convincing to his girlfriend.

Staylan brings her lips close to his ear. "People like us," she purrs, "belong together. You're a thief, Flynn." Her breath is hot against his skin and it sends a small shiver down his back. "It's in your blood. You can't run from it. You can't hide." She nips at his neck, and he has to hold back a growl. "You can only embrace it." Her teeth find his earlobe.

To hell with caution, to hell with _I love you's_.

Flynn says yes, and Stalyan practically pounces on him.

It's not until after they've thoroughly tired themselves out that it dawns on Flynn he may have made a mistake.

His yes was a promise, and he doesn't like promises. Hasn't been particularly good at keeping them, either. But his girlfriend has a way of making his resolve melt, and still her honeyed words echo in his ears: _You're never gonna have it better than this, baby. _

That night, Flynn dreams of a chain wrapping itself around its neck, slowly at first, then tightening, cutting off his airflow. He tries to yank at the chain, but finds that his hands are bound with rope. He looks down and sees that he's dressed in a prisoner's uniform. Flynn wakes up with a start, breathing heavily and wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow.

"Real subtle, subconscious," he mutters.

Stalyan sets a date for the wedding only a month after the proposal, because according to her, "why wait?"

The month goes by so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. While Stalyan runs herself ragged sorting out the cake and the decorations and the private estate where the whole occasion will go down, sheltered from the eyes of the kingdom and the law, Flynn seeks out distractions. He frequents the Snuggly Duckling, pilfers petty goods from town, even rereads _The Tales of Flynnigan Rider_, as if the children's book holds all the answers he's looking for. At one point in his life, it did.

None of it works, and he feels a little guilty for trying so hard to take his mind off things. Yes, indeed, their upcoming marriage is a promise. It's a promise to a life of crime and swashbuckling, aided by the woman who knows him best. He pictures their married life. They'll be on the run forever—or at least until they've saved up enough money to buy that island he dreams about. They'll keep each other on their toes, always sharp, always seeking out that next big thrill.

He and Stalyan could amass a dirty fortune together. They could become infamous, not just in Corona, but in the kingdoms beyond. Working together, they could become the stuff of criminal legend, the stories of their heists passed down to aspiring young thieves.

And that's exactly what he wants, right? _Right?_

Before he knows it, it's one measly day before the wedding, and nothing in the world makes sense. He can't even go talk to Stalyan face to face; _baby, it's bad luck for you to see me before the big day. _Flynn returns to the clearing where he and Stalyan had had their little chat and finds a rock to sit down on. He closes his eyes, and suddenly he can envision her, standing straight and tall, holding a bouquet of roses and sashaying down the aisle. He waits for some emotion to wash over him, but it doesn't come. _Maybe she'll switch it up_, he thinks wryly. Stalyan isn't the type for white lace and frilled innocence. He wouldn't be shocked if she showed up at the altar clad in crimson red. Maybe he should wear his usual garb too, get married in his rough vest and pants. It'd feel more honest that way. He's no gentleman and she's no lady.

God, when did he get so _pathetic_?

He fingers the latch on his satchel. Everything he needs is in there: enough gold for him to scrape by until his next burglary, a change of clothes, a few trinkets for sentimentality. Really, though, he can make it anywhere as long as he's got his smolder and his wits.

Overhead, a patch of clouds drifts north, uncovering the sun and illuminating the little clearing. Everything looks brighter, suddenly, more richly colored. Flynn blinks and surveys his surroundings, as if he's only just registering where he is and what he's doing. There's stables not too far from here. It would be a piece of cake to swipe a saddle and reins, guide a horse out onto the road, climb on, and never look back.

Yeah, Stalyan will want to kill him, but the thought of that doesn't hurt nearly as bad as he'd anticipated. So will her father, but he's not new to this game. He doesn't mind adding two more names to the long list of people who want his head on a pike.

He's an asshole for even thinking about it.

He's probably a cold-hearted monster for doing it.

Still, as he rides off down the path with dust blossoming up behind him, reins in hand, Flynn can't bring himself to feel _too bad _about his wrongdoings.

No honor among thieves, after all.


	4. Rapunzel

**a/n: **we made it to the final chapter, yay! reviews are much appreciated! by the way, if you're interested in a darker AU of tangled, check out my story _gold on black! _i put it on hold for a while but will be resuming asap :)

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It's a midsummer day, the sky cloudless and azure, with birdsong chiming through the air. It's the exact kind of day that Flynn sees as an opportunity. There will be more people milling about in the shops and squares, children running through the streets and making a racket, vendors bringing out all their best wares. In the midst of such a lively, raucous day, nobody will notice a burglar weaving in and out of the shadows.

But Flynn Rider isn't here right now. He's taken a backseat to Eugene Fitzherbert, and Eugene is less concerned with thoughts of thievery and more preoccupied with looking for his girlfriend.

"Rapunzel?" he calls out, scanning the greenery for some sign of the princess. He's already covered a decent amount of ground; how in the world did she get so far in such a short amount of time? He needs to find her _now. _She could be hurt. His heartbeat picks up slightly, in tandem with his quickened breathing. It's that damn protectiveness kicking into gear again. It's no longer an unfamiliar sensation, but it never gets less intense, throwing him off-balance every single time.

He should've been more cautious to begin with. They'd been out riding together in the Corona woods, and after a week of being cooped up in the castle with servants and maids swarming about, Rapunzel was eager to tether the horses down and venture a couple paces farther on foot. So eager, in fact, that Eugene let her skip on ahead down the path with him lagging behind. He'd scarcely taken his eyes off her for five seconds when the lilting sound of her voice went quiet, and she was all but gone.

_He_ should have been the one leading them through the woods. He's the experienced one, after all. But it's so damn _hard_ to say no to her, especially when she does that pouty-lip thing and squeals and hugs him when he relents. And it runs even deeper than that—Rapunzel's been denied little freedoms her whole life, whether it's the freedom to cut her hair or splash in puddles or and walk in circles until she dizzies herself and needs to ask for directions. The type of thing most people take for granted, she's never even had. He doesn't want to be the one to deny her those freedoms, even if it's for her own good.

Unfortunately, that thought doesn't alleviate his building anxiety in the least. _Come on, Fitzherbert—she can't have gone far. _"Blondie, are you there?" It comes out as a yell.

From somewhere to his left, he hears a tiny, pained gasp, barely audible over the sound of running water. _Shit. _He breaks into a run immediately, headed for the source, pushing stray branches out of his way. The land slopes down, and the plants grow thicker and denser the closer her gets. He's headed for a riverbank. He skids to a stop at the edge of the waters, frantic as he looks over the fast-moving currents. "_Rapunzel?!_"

"I'm here, Eugene." He instinctively whips around, and there she is: crouched on her right foot, perching precariously on a rock that's halfway-lodged in the river. White foam splashes onto the rock and dampens the hem of her dress.

Seeing that she's not in any immediate danger, the tension in his muscles saps away. "You had me scared, Blondie," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "Let's not do that again."

"It hurts," she sniffles. Confused, he glances her up and down, his gaze landing on her left foot. She's cradling it with both hands. A red gash stretches from the base of her big toe to the hollow of her foot.

Eugene's by her side right away, a steadying hand on her back. He feels the narrow knobs of her spine trembling under his palm. "Hey, hey, careful with that. What happened?" The gash isn't too deep, but it's bleeding profusely, dripping onto the rock and pooling into a tiny crimson lagoon.

Her face is pale, and her lower lip is trembling. "I was trying to cross the river, but the rock—it was really sharp, and I stepped right onto it." Rapunzel glances down briefly at the wound before flitting her eyes away. "Ow, Eugene. There's so much _blood_."

The shaky pain in her voice might as well be a knife in his heart (and he knows how _that _feels). Damn it all, this is practically nothing compared to the wounds he's treated on himself and others before, yet somehow it's so much worse. It briefly flickers across his mind that her reaction seems disproportionate—Rapunzel is too fearless for her own good, and she's recounted a veritable encyclopedia of childhood bumps and bruises to him, even a fair amount of broken bones from falling down the rafters. It's odd that such a small cut would bring her to this state, but he's too distracted by her pain to give it much further thought.

Eugene rubs her back until she stops shaking. "Hey, breathe. It's alright. Come on, let's get you to dry ground and get that cleaned up." Rapunzel nods mutely, and he sweeps her up in his arms bridal-style, eliciting a small gasp from her.

He strides away from the riverbank and lowers his girlfriend onto a patch of grass, taking care not to brush her foot on accident. "How bad is it?" she peeps. She nervously runs her hands through her choppy hair, rumpling it every which way. He hasn't seen her be so fidgety with her hair since—

_Oh. _

Her hair.

It hits him like a boulder. This is the first time in Rapunzel's life that she's been injured but unable to heal herself.

He takes her small hand in his and squeezes. "It'll heal up just fine, I promise. It's just a nick. Besides, you don't need magic hair when you've got the kingdom's best doctors at your service."

Rapunzel's fingers go rigid in his grip. "…How'd you know?"

"In my line of work, you tend to get pretty good at reading people." As he speaks, he rummages through the satchel at his hip, pulling out a roll of gauze, a clean rag, and a flask. "We've only got to clean and bandage it here, and Dr. Grendel can take a look when we get back."

"Right, or else it'll get infected," Rapunzel says under her breath, as if recalling information that she learned long ago but never had to put to use. Eugene measures out a length of gauze. "You carry those with you?" she asks. The color is slowly returning to her cheeks.

"I used to get scraped up a lot," he shrugs.

The corners of her lips quirk down in sympathy. "Oh, _Eugene_."

Unscrewing the flask, Eugene steels himself for what he's about to do. He pours out a capful of liquor onto the rag. "Alright, Blondie, this is going to sting, but it'll be over quick. Hold onto my hand, okay?"

She nods and grips onto his left hand, squeezing her eyes shut as she turns her foot so the underside is exposed_. _He winces. Flynn could sew up his buddies with a rusty needle and thread, but here's Eugene, about to lose his nerve over disinfecting a three-inch cut. Go freakin' figure. He swallows hard and presses the rag fully over the wound

Instantly, Rapunzel's fingers dig into his flesh, and she burrows her head into his chest, whimpering and biting back a cry. "_Ow, ow, ow!_"

Stupidly, irrationally, he hates himself for causing her pain, however necessary that pain may be. He wants to bundle her up and wipe away the wetness from her eyelids and take her somewhere she'll never, ever hurt again—but first things first.

"It's okay, it's okay," he soothes. The worst of it is over. He gingerly wipes at the skin around the cut, cleaning away any residual grime.

"You're done?" she mumbles, extricating herself from his shirt. There's a shadow of embarrassment on her features. "I'm sorry about how I'm acting. I don't want you to think I'm a crybaby or a wimp. It's only that… I never had to do this before."

"Yeah, I've _met _wimps, and that's not you. Don't apologize." He presses a kiss to her forehead. "Now's the easy part." He wraps the gauze around her foot, once, twice, three times, then clips it in place. "_Now _it's done."

Rapunzel breathes shakily as she stretches out her leg and flexes her toes. "It feels okay. Thank you so much, Eugene," she says, somehow working up the energy to smile warmly at him. "I think I can put pressure on it."

He shakes his head. "Oh, you're not walking. I'll carry you back."

After a few minutes of heated debate over the topic, Rapunzel throws her hands up in the hair and gives in. "Fine! You win." Eugene smirks, but she's not done. "Just one thing first. Could we please sit here for a little while longer? I don't think I'm ready to go back to the castle quite yet," she says morosely, propping her chin up on her hands. "It's why I wanted to come out here in the first place, you know? I love everyone at the castle, but I miss when it was just you and me."

It's so, so easy to say yes to Rapunzel. She leans into his side, the soft ends of her hair tickling his cheek. He could stay like this forever, perfectly content, listening to the burble of the river cloaked behind the trees. Unfortunately, his girlfriend's not quite feeling the mood.

"Do you think it'll leave a scar?" she says miserably, slumping her shoulders.

"Maybe," he ponders, "if you're lucky."

Rapunzel's head bounces back up. "If I'm _lucky?_"

"Of course, it won't hold a candle to _my _collection, but seeing as you're new to this, I can't be too hard on you." Eugene rolls his sleeves farther up his arms, exposing the raised lines crisscrossing his skin.

Her eyes go huge, bands of white wrapping around green irises. "Where'd you get those?"

He points at a jagged one creeping up the underside of his upper arm. "Hmm… this one I got when this nutcase, the Baron, threw a sword at me while I was jumping out a window. It's kind of a long story. I'll tell you some other time. This one," he brings his fingers up higher, "Was from getting bitten by some lady's rabid dog, if you can believe it."

Rapunzel giggles. "I think I can. Were you stealing from her?"

"Eh, I was… borrowing with an indefinite return date."

She reaches up to bop him on the nose, her wound temporarily forgotten. "Stealing."

Not letting himself get sidetracked, Eugene pulls up his shirt to reveal the flat expanse of his stomach. "See that one?" The scar above his navel is deceptively small. "It's pretty faded, but I'm proud of this thing. Some meathead tried to gut me in a bar with a broken bottle. I took care of him," he boasts, "but not before he got a few good ones in."

Eugene can't believe it, but her eyes actually _can _get even wider. "Why'd he try to gut you?"

"Over a girl," he reminisces. "But no need to be jealous, sunshine, it was all a big mix-up. He got the wrong guy." At least, he _thinks_ so. He went through a lot of women back then. If meathead's girl got caught up in the mix, too bad.

"Hmm." He's not sure if she's bought it entirely. It seems like ever since he met Blondie, his silver tongue has been getting a little rusty around the edges. Still, he's feeling pretty satisfied with himself for thinking up a way to lift Rapunzel's spirits (Eugene's doesn't think she would have taken too well to the whole '_wenches dig scars, man' _spiel that Lance used on him once).

"Be proud of your scars," he says. "They remind you what you've been through, and how far you've come."

"Do you have any more?" Rapunzel asks.

Eugene makes a stupid, split-second decision. "Sure I do," he says, and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.

"Oh!" she squeaks. Rapunzel flushes so quickly that it's almost comical, her cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink and her eyes darting away from his torso. Then, as if the temptation is too strong to resist, she slowly swivels her gaze back around. "Oh."

Eugene can't help it—he preens, basking in the attention. She blinks and reaches out to touch his clavicle, sending a shockwave down his spine. From there, she drifts downward, tracing the light, faded scars decorating his bare chest. There aren't even that many, but Rapunzel certainly takes her sweet time with them. He has to dig his fingers into his palms to keep from doing something really, really stupid.

The blush has (mostly) subsided to an air of total concentration. She's far too close, and she smells tantalizing. Eugene doesn't want to take this any farther, not before she's ready for more, but it's getting more difficult by the second.

"Eugene, what's a 'ladies' man?'"

Well, of all the things she could've said, he wasn't expecting _that._

His first instinct is to laugh at the strange question, but then he sees Rapunzel's got that expectant, eager look again. It's the face she gets whenever she asks him something, like she's positive he holds all the answers. As much as her lack of common knowledge bothers him sometimes, reminding him of her life in the tower, Eugene secretly _loves_ that look. He savors the fact that she trusts him implicitly, unreservedly, without the fear that he'll lie to her or manipulate her.

Most of the time, he can answer her questions to her satisfaction. This is not one of those times.

"Now where you'd hear that?" he says evenly.

Her cheeks redden again. "Some of my ladies-in-waiting were talking when they thought I wasn't there. Talking about… you." She looks at him sheepishly. "I didn't understand most of what they were saying, but I can put two and two together. Some of the things they called you didn't, um, sound very nice. So I got a _tiny_ bit upset and butted into their conversation."

"Is that so?" Okay, he's making her squirm, but it's payback for how much worry she put him through earlier.

"Yeah."

"I felt bad eavesdropping, but it was on accident, really, and they shouldn't have been saying those things about you." The confidence in her voice builds. "I told them to explain themselves. They got all flustered." She smiles at the memory. "Sophia said they just meant you were a 'ladies' man', and that they were worried about how you might treat me because of that. That was all she would say. I still don't know what a ladies' man is, or if you are one, or why it would make you treat me badly."

Eugene's skin prickles with self-consciousness. He feels exposed, and not just because his shirt is off. _Come on, Fitzherbert, don't overreact. You knew people were going to talk._

It's the truth—Eugene isn't blind to the sentiments of the royal court or the general public. The rumor mill has been particularly busy ever since the lost princess's return, and much of the gossip has centered around him. Depending on who you ask, he's either a good-for-nothing leech who's just along for the ride, a scheming criminal plotting to steal the throne, or a sleazy womanizer who hasn't learned to keep his hands off what doesn't belong to him.

Most of the time, it's water off a duck's back. The moment it starts bothering Rapunzel, though, he's got an axe to grind. After he finds a way to explain this to Rapunzel without making himself sound like a total douchebag, he'll have to ask more about this _Sophia _chick.

"A ladies' man is a guy who… spends a lot of time with women," he says lamely.

She cocks her head. "Okay. Why is that bad?"

Eugene takes a deep breath. "Blondie, you want me to level with you?"

She nods.

"Good. Look, what they were saying about me might have been true once, but it isn't anymore. I was a different person then."

"I know," she says with a slight edge of impatience. "You were a thief."

"Not just that," he winces. "Rapunzel, before I met you, I was with other women."

"With other women," she echoes. For once, he can't read her expression.

"Yeah." He hopes he isn't making a fool of himself. "Some of them were girlfriends, some of them were just…"_—don't say one-night-stand, don't say one-night-stand—_ "flings. But you have to understand, I wasn't searching for anything serious. Didn't want to commit myself to anyone or anything. A couple of the girls wanted more than I could give, and, well… I broke some hearts along the way. I hurt people without meaning to."

_And sometimes, they hurt me_. That last fragment goes unspoken.

Rapunzel stares at him owlishly. It's just fantastic that she chooses _now _to reveal her poker face.

"I was Flynn Rider back then, and I guess I thought I wasn't meant for a real relationship, and that it made me stronger or better to stay unattached." He wishes he could go back in time and pummel some sense into his younger self. "That's why your ladies-in-waiting said I would hurt you. They think that I'm still that guy, and I'll do the same thing to you, but they couldn't be more wrong, Rapunzel_._ I _love _you."

Rapunzel freezes in place. Her lips part slightly and her breathing comes to a halt.

He can hear his heart thudding hard in his ribcage. _Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. _For half a heartbeat, Eugene is confused, his mind struggling to catch up with his tongue—

—then the heartbeat ends, not with a steady _bump _but with a crash of thunder, a tremor. The impact knocks all the air from his body, and with it, all his common sense goes too.

"It's you," he says, feeling giddy, not caring in the least if he sounds sappy or unrefined. "You're the one for me. I used to not even know what love was supposed to feel like. But then with you, it was like the easiest thing in the world."

"_Eugene_." She breathes his name and it's all he ever wants to be called.

Nothing has ever been more obvious. He loves Rapunzel. He has for a long time now. Whatever came before, whatever is yet to come, none of it can ever compare to the way Eugene feels about her. She's looking at him now with pure tenderness in her eyes, and he doesn't know how to describe it, only that 'beautiful' is much, much too small of a word. It's like liquid sunshine in his veins and he never, ever wants it to stop. He wants her, _all _of her, to be good to her and to be good _for _her.

Eugene hasn't just let his guard down; he's smashed it to smithereens and tossed aside the remains. With her smile and her touch and her laugh, the golden girl has found the chinks in Flynn Rider's armor, reduced him to rubble, and left the man underneath all sorts of defenseless. Every naked want and need has been pushed out in the open, stripped of the thief's clothes they once wore to keep themselves warm.

It feels like falling in the best kind of way. It feels like freedom.

"I love you," he repeats, and Rapunzel's saying it back, over and over and over, like a melody to paint the world gold. There's just enough time between kisses to murmur, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

It sounds sweeter every time.


End file.
